A Debt to Faceless Men: Valar Morghulis
by IUzoI
Summary: All men must serve, and all men must die. A debt to faceless men is never small, and those who owe do pay. A man, who's life was lost so many years before, trains in the ways of death and service, and in his devotion is set to collect a debt that is long past due. In his mission, memories come to haunt him and vengeance seeks his hand.


The Busty Gal sailed steadfast on a sheet of turquoise glass, her ours breaking the still surface with timed and rhythmic splashes. She was a sturdy cog, as strong as she was ugly, who had braved the worse of what the narrow sea could throw at her. Her patchwork sails were limp, but the rowers pushed her onward, slipping through the seas as swift as any wind might urge her. The wooden wench that graced the bow stared out at the sea beyond, quietly watching the horizon for ship breaker bay and the harbor where she might rest her weary hull. Her belly was full of spices and wines, dates and figs and dried peppers, crates of smoked fish, mussels drowned in olive oils, and crabs enough to leave even the drowned god bloated. She smelled of some exotic sea, not quite sweet though not near fowl, but rather a potent mix of salt and herb and sweat. Timmon the Talker didn't care much for the ships particular perfume, though he was growing more accustomed to as time passed. He spent most of that time aboard above deck, though the captain was kind enough to offer him a cramped, though not entirely uncomfortable cabin below. By day he would walk the deck, listening to the crew swap tales and rumors from across the sea, or argue over which Inn had the best meat pies, or which brothel provided the choicest whores. Each man it would seem had his own unique taste when it came to such. The pot-bellied cook, with his toothless grin, shaggy graying beard and milky squinting eyes preferred his woman as lumpy and questionable as his pies. "Them skinny ones not worth a piss, less to start a fire when ya rub two together. " He would say with a spit flinging laugh. " Only the big ones can please a man with my appetite. Aye, one's with the hard faces, well fed bellies and tits as big as the busty gals. Them the ones worth a good coin, fuck a man so good he'd think to pay her twice." The Pretty Lad was a boy of six and ten who served as the captain's cabin boy, but could mend sails and was among the few on board who could read if not yet write. He had a youthful face, baby smooth skin and thick lashes over chestnut colored eyes that matched his flowing mane. On longer voyages the crew would often jest of how with the right dress and a flower or two to tie in his hair, how he could make as fine and pretty a company as any woman, thus how he got his name. Most boys graced with his pleasant appearance would have their pick of pretty girls from anywhere in the seven kingdoms, but he was shy, with blushing cheeks when one would even mention bedding a woman. Some had suspected that perhaps he had no interest at all in women, favoring cock over cunt, but he paid those men no mind saying "I would rather wait and bed the one who loves me true for a lifetime, thenpay to earn a burning cock for just as long." The boy had a lover's heart no doubt, but a life at sea would change that, and sooner or later he would have as many crabs feasting on his loins as the Busty Gal had within her hold, and a bastard in every port that he should land in. When the men weren't recalling various sexual conquests, they would gamble. Sometimes Timmon would join in. More often than not he would walk away to the curses of the others and a pocket full of coins to their dismay. They called it blind luck, though Timmon knew the true secret to gambling, and that was to never acknowledge what you have to gain, and never care for what you could lose. Games of dice were entertaining enough, though he preferred the greater challenge of crevasse, a game where skill and intellect beat luck every time. Pretty Lad made for a decent opponent, though an easily predictable one. His moves were bold, hasty and ill planned, but with each game he grew more cautious. Unlike most, Pretty Lad learned from his mistakes, and was careful never to make them again. A smart lad indeed. By night, Timmon would set himself upon the back of the Busty Gals figurehead, washing down meager meals of sour red grapes and smoked eel with a tart wine. When he finished, he would lay back and watch the stars drift in the skies above him. He enjoyed the silence, the chill of the night air and steady bobbing of the ship as it made its way through the inky dark. Although, as soothing as the sea nights may have been, they did not come without their ghosts. Memories of days long past, people long-lost, men he used to be and names he used to live by. He abandon his real name when he entered the temple of black and white, along with a life that he tried in vain to forget. That was not my life, he would remind himself, I am no one, I am a faceless man with no life but that which the many face god wills me. "That is a lie." The priest of the temple would say each time his memories betrayed him during his years of training as a faceless man. "You are Alyx Rivers, the thief, the liar. An outlaw, a murderer and a hanged man left to die. Do you deny it." " I wore his face, I do not deny this. Alyx Rivers died within the temple of black and white. Though some would say he was dead before then, left to swing from the end of a rope tied to a twisted oak, where the crows had plucked out his eyes and the ants nibbled away his rotted flesh." The priest would cup his hands, the hood of his robe covering most of his face, though Timmon could feel his eyes raise inquisitively beneath it. "Some would say he earned such a death." Timmon nodded, "Aye, some would. Though only the many faced god can rightfully judge who is deserving of the gift. The opinions of men very too greatly to be trusted." "You speak the right of it dead man, but your eyes sing a different song. I see the rage that hides within, the wronged and bitter man who hides beneath your flesh thirsting for justice, screaming for retribution." Timmon could feel that man trying desperately to show himself, and he would stuff him back into the recesses of his thoughts, letting any remnant of emotion fade from his face the same as memories from his mind. "Were Alyx Rivers alive he would have longed for such things, that is true. But dead men can long for nothing but life. A faceless man longs for nothing but to serve. Valar dohaeris."

"Valar morghulis" the priest would reply, and the cycle would continue.

Over time at the temple of black and white, among the dead and dying, where the watchful eye's of Weeping Woman, the Moon-pale maiden, the Merlin king and the Wayfarer would look down on him with solemn marble faces, smoke and dull light dancing in their gaze, he began to forget. He forgot of his years before Braavos, when he wore the face of Alyx Rivers, stealing and cheating and lying with his name. He had forgotten what that face had looked like, what the voice had sounded like, how old or young the body or how fine or course the hair. He recalled he might have loved, but could not recall of whom, and might have lived a modest life, though where was unfamiliar. All those things were replaced with knowledge that would serve him better than the memories of a dead man. He learned the many tongues of the free cities, mastering their accents and dialects to speak as well as any native. He served with seasoned sell swords who taught him to fight with sword and ax and dirk. He learned to walk as softly as a cat and as swiftly as a mouse, and move through the darkness as easily and quietly as both. He could use potions and herbs to heal most wounds better than any measter, and poisons to rival even those of Dorne. He learned to don new faces as easily as one would don a helm. And most important to his craft, he learned the fine art of death. Any man could kill, but only a faceless man could perfect the delicate details of it. No other man killed as clean, strike with such precision, or vanished with as much grace and inscrutability as the shadow of death itself. One evening not so long ago, the hooded priest came to him as he supped alone by candlelight. He could hear a rat move in an adjoining room, but could never hear when the priest came or went until he was already upon him. "Who are you?" he asked softly. Before the voice would startle him, but no longer. Timmon swallowed a mouthful of bean and bacon soup, placed his spoon into the bowl and laid his palms calmly on the table. "I am who I need be." he said plainly. "and who is that?" "Anyone and no one." The old man placed his hand on Timmon's shoulder, though he was not Timmon then. He wore a face not as pretty as Timmon's, frightening in comparison. This particular face was scarred and leathery, with thick purple bags under the eyes, one black the other pale and blind as a cave trout's. His nose was bulbous and crooked, red and riddled with bust veins, with a set of wormy lips beneath, as chapped and chewed as a man to long under a desert sun, hiding a few brown and broken teeth. what hair he had was gray and thin and greasy, doing little to nothing in hiding the spotted scalp beneath. His body looked frail and hunched beneath his beggars rags, but he was as strong and spry as any man who looked not half his age. Cougher the sailors would call him, when he'd slowly cane himself about the docks and causeways, hacking into his phlegm coated handkerchief asking for a coin of kindness for a broken old man. Some would fling him a penny or two, making sure to keep their distance. The young and drunk ones would often kick his cane from beneath him, laughing and mocking him as he fumbled for it on his hands and knees. Others simply paid him no mind at all less to shoot him a glance of disgust or pity, or cover their mouths and noses to keep from breathing whatever diseases he may spread. The Cougher reeked of death and sickness, a feeble creature, half blind and deaf, though saw and heard more secrets and plots then any fly in Braavos. "Tell me," the priest said in half a whisper, "In your many days surely you've crossed many a man and learned of many a name. No doubt, you have heard of the young thief by the name of Alyx Rivers. A murderer some say, if rumors could be trusted. Do you know of him?" The Cougher, nodded solemnly. "Aye, I knew of him, a shamed fool with a face too plain to recall. They hung him from a withered tree, and left him on a wooded road to choke and die and rot, So they say. Only him of many faces knows for sure." "You lie." "Old men tell tales. Some are only half-truths, others woven from dim memories. That was the tale of Alyx Rivers, or what I have learned of it. If the story is a lie, I would not know. Rivers existed a lifetime ago, and no one will remember the truth of it. Heard of him aye, but this old man never met him, and if rumors be true he never will." "Then it is clear that you truly have learned much in your years, old man." The priest moved to take a seat across the table. The face beneath his hood seemed to morph and contort from the shadows cast by the fluttering candle between them. "There is a cog," the priest began, "set to sail westward to a port in Ship Breaker Bay. Its captain is a cautious man, weary of strangers, though his love of coin can lower his guard and sway him more often than not. A compelling man with coin to spare might persuade this captain to book himself passage on such a ship. Once in the west, this man will find a woman to greet him with a letter. This man must have the look of a nobleman, a sharp intellect and versed in the ways of sword and shield and honor. Do you know such a man?" "I do. He has not seen the west in many years, but he has not yet forgotten the lands. He is much younger and more handsome than I, but clever and well read in the histories of the seven kingdoms and its many houses. I trust this man would serve well." A smile parted the priests lips in agreement. He was well past eight and eighty but his mouth still held all its teeth, all evenly aligned and white as pearl. "I will leave you to your meal then my old friend, the hour is late but I am sure you have much to do. When you find this man, tell him the many faced god will be pleased with his devotion, as am I. Valar morghulis." "Valar dohaeris" The Cougher replied, as the old priest left him to his soup and silence.

The next morning, the Inn of the Green Eel was abuzz even before the sun had fully revealed itself from behind the horizon. Men were already filling the tables, stuffing down fried sardine and washing the spice from their pallet with bitter wines, trying to recover from a night of drunkenness or working on a day on it. The air was ripe with the scents of baking bread, stale ale and sailor musk, and the talk was that of this port or that, western rebellions, shifty traders or wonton women all spoken in a dozen different tongues. Only a few noticed the moment the well dressed youth entered, they gave him a quick go over, a loath full squint, then quickly went back to breaking there fast and drowning their ailments. His golden hair was fine and neatly combed flowing in waves to his shoulders, and beneath it, piercing eyes of bronze. He wore a silken tunic of the same color as his locks, seamed with white and trimmed with a lighter shade of violet. Dark brown trousers covered his legs, with knee-high boots of blacked leather to shield his feet. A longsword hung from his belt with an ebony hilt carved in the likeness of a serpent. Too pretty to be a sailor, the men could see that clearly. Perhaps the son of some wealthy trader, or a traveler from the west looking for some grand adventure in the lands beyond the sea, full of pride and a young fools bravery. The Inn keeper seemed the most leery of him, it was plain to see in his beady eyes when the dapper youth requested wine. The Inn keep was an ugly, portly man with the lips of a fish and hair as wild and black as a boars. He had a boars nose as well, tilted upwards and flattened against his pudgy red face, and he smelled as though he had some dead and rotting creature buried in the folds of his neck. The youth had to ask him twice before the Inn keep finally broke his glare with a grunting response. "Coin first, Don't trust no stranger no matter how much silk they wrapped in." The youth tossed a silver stag at him, but even that he did not trust. He had to bite at it with the remaining few teeth he had, to be sure of its authenticity, scowling at the youth begrudgingly but taking it all the same. The youth found himself a table near the back of the Inn seating himself with his back to the wall, allowing for a good view of anyone coming or going. When the Inn keep finally brought the wine, the youth stopped him before he could wobble away. "A cog named The Busty Gal has taken port in Ragmans Harbor, set to sail west near dawn. I have heard her Captain frequents here, favors your smoked fish to take with on his voyages. Do you know of whom I speak?" The Inn Keep looked around to be sure nobody was noticing him conversing with such a fancy fellow. "I might. Depends upon who's ask'n?" The youth grinned, pulling a golden coin to dance across his fingers. "A dragon." The inn keeps eyes widen and he licked his lips as his sausage like fingers reached for the gold, but the youth closed his palms around it before the man could snatch it. "Aye." the Inn keep said, sweating at the prospect of reward. "Soggy Jon they call em. But if ya come to kill em, ya best go right back where ya came from. He'd eat a pretty lad like you ta break his fast." "I have no need of his life, Only his ship. I must book passage west as soon as yesterday. The Busty Gal is a worn but swift I hear." "Aye, that she is. And not a finer Captain in Braavos to sail er." The youth opened his palm, But again before the man could grab it, his palm closed again to the Inn keeps increasing dismay. "And where would I find this captain?" The Inn keep leered at him, until the youth revealed the coin once more, this time the Inn Keep was quick to grab it less it be hidden once more. He pointed to a table next to the door where three men with wind burnt faces sat laughing. "There." he grunted, before wandering off to his business one dragon


End file.
